Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 01 Read Free

comfortable.
The more I squirmed, the worse it got. I hated stakeouts. My body didn’t
respond well to sitting or standing around for long periods of time. Then there
was the boredom. I was almost hoping Nigel’s steward would wake up, go looking
for a nighttime snack, and find Quentin. At least I’d get to do something.
    Just
because I didn’t really expect any violence tonight, didn’t mean I wasn’t
prepared for it. I’m not exactly what you’d call physically intimidating.
Thanks to my elven blood, I’m tall enough, but my small bones and slender build
are designed more for running than fighting. For those times when speed or
spells didn’t discourage someone, I kept all sorts of interesting weapons,
mostly the bladed variety, tucked here and there.
    Quentin
was even smaller than I was, and wiry—and could locate trouble faster than a
lodestone could find true north. Though considering the section of the city we
were in, I’d more than likely have to call on my alternate arsenal.
    I’m a
magic user of respectable ability, though most sorcerers would look down their
noses and call what I do parlor tricks. In addition to my seeking skills, I can
move small objects with my mind, maintain an image of myself in a place I’ve
just left, and my shields are right up there with the best. Not the most
powerful sorcery by a long shot, but in my opinion, power’s overrated—plus I
know how to fight dirty, magically and otherwise. It’s always been enough to
keep me alive. Singed around the edges doesn’t count.
    What
I can’t do is manipulate the wills of others, affect the weather, communicate
with or raise the dead, turn base metal into gold, see into the future, or any
of the other skills other sorcerers turn into a way to make a living. Not that
I haven’t tried a few. I think the words “young” and “stupid” went a long way
toward explaining those efforts. I even tried pyromancy once, but I almost set
fire to my cat. It was at least six months before he didn’t run every time I
struck a match.
    I
couldn’t see Quentin anymore, but it didn’t mean I didn’t know exactly where he
was.
    “He’s
inside,” I told Phaelan. “And he didn’t set off any wards.”
    “You
make it sound like a bad thing.”
    “It’s
not good. Quentin’s employer either had Nigel’s wards disabled ahead of time,
or Quentin has a ghencharm.”
    Phaelan
didn’t exactly look enlightened. “Which is?”
    “A
talisman that disables wards. Quentin could walk straight through every ward in
that house and not make a sound. Problem is you have to know ahead of time what
wards are being used. Whoever keyed it would need inside information.”
    Phaelan
shrugged. “So someone bribed one of Nigel’s servants. So did you.”
    “I
just got the household routine. Quentin apparently got the house. Someone in
there really doesn’t like their boss. Nigel’s not going to be happy.”
    “So
he’s not the lovable type. I’d imagine not many necromancers are. Can you track
him?”
    I
nodded absently. I was seeing more than just Phaelan.
    Quentin
was in the main part of the house now. A tracking stone only lets you know the
carrier’s location, usually without any details as to what they see. There could
be occasional flashes of image, but that only happened with magically sensitive
carriers, or those you knew very well. Quentin wasn’t the sensitive type,
magically or otherwise. Apparently I knew him well enough, because I got a hazy
vision from his viewpoint of stairs leading to the second floor. No wards. No
lurking stewards. Looked like Quentin had a good ghencharm. Phaelan and I might
not have to charge in to the rescue after all. But I still had every intention
of sitting down with Quentin for a very long talk when this was over, and if I
needed extra muscle to hold him down while we chatted, so be it.
    Quentin
went straight to what looked to be a formal reception area on the ground floor.
He crossed the room to a wall,